


Don't Lose Your Head

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Community: sherlockbbc_fic, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Infidelity (Sort Of), M/M, Meet-Cute, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 07:57:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9312488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: This is a response to a terribly amusing 2015 kinkmeme prompt:"Kind-of-crack AU idea which doesn't actually have to be crack:Sherlock is a professional home-wrecker. When rich men want to get out of unwanted marriages, they hire Sherlock to "seduce" their wives (with or without actual sex) and then they can accuse their wives of infidelity in the divorce proceedings. With Sherlock's good looks and incredible ability to deduce exactly what women want, he's got no difficulty taking on interesting "cases" and the ethics don't bother him a bit.Lestrade's wife presents an interesting gender twist: she hires Sherlock to seduce Lestrade, in an attempt to draw attention away from her own infidelities and come out ahead in the divorce. Only problem is, even though Lestrade and Sherlock are both strangely happy to make googly eyes at each other, Lestrade is unwilling to cheat on his wife. And Sherlock is finding himself more and more attracted to the DI because of it.Totally up to you where this goes (or how much of this plot bunny you follow), as long as it involves some hot Sherstrade sex and a happy ending :-)"I went with the non-cracky option, and haven't gotten to the sex yet--chapter 2 TBW.





	

“God, you reek a little,” John complains, his mouth forming a moue of distaste as Sherlock flops down on the sofa next to him with his open laptop. “What _is_ that, perfume?"

“The husband thought it would be appropriately dramatic to fling a bottle of it at the wall after ‘catching’ us in her dressing room. I was in the line of fire of the backsplash,” he sighs, opening his e-mail client and scanning the messages coming into his work account.

“I’d charge him extra for that,” John smirks. “That jacket can’t be cheap.”

“It isn’t, and I intend to,” Sherlock agrees, though he’s a little distracted by the message he’s most recently received. The sender is, unusually, a woman, and the profile of the case she presents is crisp, almost defensive. Husband: forty-two, busy with police work, never home, knows _she’s_ cheating, hasn’t confronted her about it, hasn’t mentioned divorce. Not going to look good for her if she sues for it now; tried to get some dirt on him through a private investigator, but he’s infuriatingly clean. Best the PI could drum up was some evidence of bisexuality from before the police academy and very old rumors of unusual kinks that might be sensational, but not illegal. One of her boyfriend’s mates used Sherlock's services several years ago—ah, yes, the Welsh attorney and his nervous spouse with severe OCD, Sherlock remembers that one well—and she suspects he might be able to seduce her husband with a little effort, evening the odds somewhat of her making out all right in the divorce. Will he take the job?

Sherlock double-clicks to open an attachment, details from the PI’s investigation—not particularly concerned about her husband’s privacy, then, considering she’s not yet a client—including a basic biography and a photo. Not just a policeman, but a Detective Inspector with the Met. Sherlock’s lips perk into a little smile at that, imagining what challenges might be involved in pulling a professional detective. For once, an assignment that might be truly interesting—rare enough in his line of work or he’d charge much less for it. As he skims through the details, a vague auditory awareness creeps into his brain and he realizes that John’s trying to get his attention.

“…haven’t heard a word I’ve said in the past five minutes, have you? What is it this time, then? Is she going to be hard to get? Particularly intelligent? I know you like the clever ones, but I’d rather not have to show up with a firearm to get you out of another mess like the last time."

Sherlock smiles at that, too, remembering Irene Adler’s ultimate downfall last year and how elaborate it had been to bring about. John had been particularly stressed during that case, but then he always gets nervous about Sherlock getting too involved with his cases. Sentiment. “You’re lying; you loved it. And I have no idea about intelligence, but it’s possible. The mark works with the police."

“A policewoman?” John’s eyebrows go up. “Really? Sounds risky… have you got a picture, though? Give it here,” he demands, reaching for the laptop, which Sherlock relinquishes without complaint.

“My business is perfectly legal, John, as I’ve said to you at least a dozen times. There’s no law against this particular brand of deception, and it’s the mark’s own fault that they always fall for me. It’s a simple game of social engineering,” he continues, unperturbed as usual by common ethics or his own narcissism, but he quickly realizes that John isn’t listening.

“Sherlock… this is a bloke."

“I can see that. Problem?” Sherlock asks, taking the laptop back when John’s looked his fill.

“Well… no. I suppose not. It’s all fine, I just… your marks have always been women.”

“Not strictly always. Since you met me, yes. Most people who hear about the availability of a professional male home-wrecker are men, due to the word-of-mouth nature of the business. As you know, I certainly can’t advertise publicly, and it’s rare that a wife looks for such services to tempt her husband. But not unheard of.”

John hums, frowning a bit in the way he does when he’s about to say something _caring_ about Sherlock. Sherlock sighs, but he goes on with it. “I suppose… it’s not that strange. But it seems a little too close to home, you know? Doesn’t that worry you?"

“Because I’m gay."

“Well… yes. I always assumed the work was easier for you because of the professional distance. It’s not personal if you sleep with women."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “The work is _easy_ for me because human beings are hopelessly predictable, and I have a tremendous skill in the art of deduction, honed over time through my practice of the craft. _As you know_ , John, really. I’m hardly going to fall for some poor sod whose wife is cheating on him in favor of a wealthier man with more free time. He’ll eventually cave due to loneliness, and he’ll be entirely uninteresting once he does. They always are, irrespective of gender. I deduce their needs, they fall into my hands, the fun of the game is over and I collect a cheque. This is business.”

“Mixed with pleasure, though,” John obstinately points out. “At least a little more than your usual cases, you have to admit.”

“Fine,” Sherlock sighs, dramatically slapping the laptop shut and pushing himself to standing. “I have no need to deny the appeal of being paid to snog a handsome man, but I assure you there won’t be any _feelings_ tangled up with it. Anyone that attractive and purportedly sexually interesting is likely to be a complete dullard, and as you know, I categorically do _not_. Date.” With that, he stalks off to his bedroom, stripping out of the noxious-smelling Spencer Hart suit as he goes.

Some days, Sherlock wonders if there might be a better way to keep himself in the lifestyle to which he has become accustomed than luring unsuspecting women (and occasionally, men) out of their pathetic marriages, but finding another career would take effort, and pointless effort sounds much more like the kind of thing John enjoys. Sherlock, if nothing else, knows a good racket when he sees one, and the odd chance at the company of a fit silver-haired detective whilst engaged in a satisfying puzzle certainly doesn’t hurt. He knows his line of work better than anyone engaged in seduction for simple _pleasure_. Where’s the fun in that?

~*~

The first phase, as always, is research. Less usual is the amount of material readily available online, given the mark’s profession and duty to appear in the news media from time to time, discussing his cases. For once, Sherlock is actually more interested in irrelevant details tangentially related to the mark than in his own mission, and he wastes half an afternoon solving one of the DI’s open cases for him. An in, perhaps, though Sherlock has no idea how to go about contacting a member of the Metropolitan Police with a play-by-play of exactly how wrong his Murder Investigation Team is concerning an unsolved mystery in which Sherlock is not personally involved. At best, he might end up patched through to some irrelevant lackey, and at worst, he’d be treated with suspicion given his massive intellect—not the first time it’s happened—and perhaps accused of involvement in the case himself. Hardly a compelling entrance, showing up in the man’s life as a suspected accomplice to murder when he’s aiming at illicit paramour. He’ll need another approach, so he reluctantly moves on from the coverage of unsolved murders and along to something more personal.

John gives him a look of mild alarm when he comes into the kitchen for tea and toast and finds a sheaf print-outs from fetish sites messily arrayed atop the table, but it’s hardly the oddest research he’s ever done for a case.

“I think I’m having flashbacks,” the doctor mutters, glancing at an article on the psychology of sexual dominance while he waits for the kettle to boil. “Didn’t you learn all this last time?”

“I hardly needed to psychoanalyze The Woman to get an in, John. Her services were readily available for purchase on the Internet. This is different.”

“This bloke’s into that same kind of thing, though?”

“Likely. I can’t be certain until we meet. I traced his IP address and can’t find any concrete evidence of fetish websites or pornographic viewing habits. The information the PI uncovered was anecdotal, though the two men interviewed had no reason to lie and each story independently corroborates the other. Still, it’s nearly twenty years old.”

“Maybe his interests changed, then. People try dumb shit in bed all the time when they’re young,” John points out as the toaster dings.

“He wasn’t _that_ young. And it’s obvious that he was initially besotted with his wife, but the hours of his job have been a strain on the relationship. She had reason to cheat, while he’s simply become more addicted to the thrill of the chase, with no time for either married life or adulterous kinky encounters. Solving murders must be intoxicating,” he murmurs, and John just snorts.

“Yeah, well I’m glad you mostly just solve blonde millionaires,” John contributes. “Less messy."

Sherlock doesn’t dignify that with a response, but starts to shuffle through the print-outs, thinking of how to best draw his mark out. Given the paucity of evidence, it’s starting to seem like more of long shot, as approaches go. He can’t simply show up in a fetish club, as the DI doesn’t frequent them. No suspicious web activity means no cleverly worded dating profile to entice the man, and if it’s really been this long since Lestrade last engaged in his fetishes, a subtle approach will be key. Indeed he might be able to exploit the dry spell—the wife having confirmed via e-mail that her own sexual interests bend towards the decidedly vanilla—but if the man is even remotely self-aware, the abstinence has been a conscious choice. If Sherlock wants to use his proclivities to tempt him, he’ll need a less suspicious way in. He sighs and turns back to the page of crime-related Google alerts. Work over pleasure, perhaps, after all.

~*~

Ultimately, Sherlock caves just a bit to impatience. It’s too tempting to march into New Scotland Yard, use a faked air of authority copied from Mycroft to insist upon a meeting with Detective Inspector Lestrade, and then lay out the flaws in the Met’s theory of the case in excruciating detail, point by point and with additional details he suspects will be confirmed by evidence to which he doesn’t have access. He doesn’t have to fake his excitement or triumph in having solved a murder, and the Inspector is actually more impressed—and less suspicious—than Sherlock expected. Sitting behind a metal desk piled messily with paperwork, he grills Sherlock not only on the case itself, but also on his own identity (he uses his own legal first name, William, rather than one of his more common pseudonyms, but given the circumstances he’s had to arrange a more complex and discoverable public identity than typical, and a fresh name was needed). Still, when the detective has asked all his questions, there’s a spark of amazement in his eyes, rather than annoyance, and he surprises Sherlock with a wide grin that takes five years off his face, leaning back in his chair and crossing one ankle over the other knee.

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade exclaims. “I can’t believe it, but I think you may actually be right. I’ll send a team to interview the stepmother today—is there a number where I can reach you if I need to get in touch?”

“Actually…yes, I would love to hear from you,” Sherlock replies with a small, excited smile, faking an earnestness and enthusiasm in his feats of deduction as if he didn’t perform them on a daily basis. “I hope I’ve been a help,” he adds, passing over a generic business card.

“I think you might have been. Ever considered police work, Mr. Emerson?"

“Please, it’s William. And no, not especially,” Sherlock answers truthfully. “I do enjoy puzzles, but not bureaucracy.”

Lestrade rewards him with a genuine laugh. “I don’t blame you. And I’ll give you a ring when I can. Thank you again for the tip, William. I know all the lads will be grateful on this one if it pans out.”

“I suspect so,” Sherlock agrees, rising to his feet and giving Lestrade a handshake that is firm, but not lingering. _Proceed with caution_ , his instincts tell him, having deduced at least sixty new facts about the man in the course of their brief conversation. But he’s not pessimistic as he leaves the bustling atmosphere of the Yard, trying to sneak peeks at computer screens and whiteboards as he goes. There is a certain loneliness about the Inspector, and a certain friendly interest in Sherlock. Lestrade seems genuinely curious about Sherlock’s deductive skills, despite the fact that he behaved far more like himself—helpful, but still a bit abrasive, rattling off facts and shooting down potential objections with razor clarity as he got caught up in the enjoyment of proving his points—than he ever has on a case. The odd alignment between the man’s profession and Sherlock’s talents may in fact be more of an asset than he had originally considered. He’ll have to tease that out, he decides, throwing his hand up for a black cab on Victoria Street, when they meet again.

~*~

Sophie Lestrade is not an interesting woman, but she is refreshingly brief. Unlike Sherlock's typical male clients, demanding detailed progress reports and collaboration on the strategy of how to seduce their wives, Mrs. Lestrade is not funding this venture with her own money, and seems happy to let Sherlock actually do his job, providing information on her husband as needed. After their daytime meeting, Sherlock is pleased to get a text from the other Lestrade in question, informing Sherlock that he has an update on the case of their mutual interest. It's been two weeks since they last met, but Sophie doesn't mind—in fact, approves of—his gradual, subtle strategy. She agrees that the Inspector might begin to suspect something if Sherlock applied a heavier hand. Sherlock has wrapped up another job in the interim, and arrives at the smart pub near Covent Garden in a pleasant mood.

"Emerson!" Lestrade calls out, waving him towards a booth. Sherlock smiles, lifts one hand in greeting, and orders an alcopop at the bar before heading over.

"Eurgh," Lestrade comments disdainfully as expected towards his drink, though he's smiling. "How do you stand that stuff?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I haven't quite developed a taste for beer," he 'admits,' taking advantage of the inclination for mentorship Lestrade had displayed at the Yard by hinting a bit younger than his true age. Lestrade just grins and shakes his head.

"Better than too much of one, I suppose." He takes a sip from his own pint glass, just a bit of the foamy head clinging to his lip. "I have good news for you."

"You caught the killer," Sherlock states, more blunt than bashful, but Lestrade doesn't seem bothered. They both know now that Sherlock's techniques are rock-solid.

"Just as you said," he agrees. "Public record now, but I wanted to thank you personally. Sorry I couldn't speak sooner."

"No, of course," Sherlock defers. "Protocol."

"That old familiar bastard," Lestrade smiles. "Perhaps you're right to be wary of the bureaucracy involved in policework. But I'm sad we'll miss out on that brain of yours."

"Hmm," Sherlock smiles, nods discreetly towards the bar. "See that woman? Her fiancé is late to meet her, but she's expecting it. They both want to break it off, but neither wants to be the first to bring it up."

"Bollocks!" Lestrade exclaims cheerfully, shaking his head. "How could you possibly..."

"She's dressed for a date, but she doesn't keep checking the door or her mobile. She brought a book, so she expected a delay. Engagement ring is worn, not regularly cleaned nor is it new. She could have arrived early, but then she wouldn't have bothered to stay visible near the door. She's at least willing to entertain the possibility that he might be on time, but not counting on it. Too relaxed to be the doting woman trying to keep her man, but no one who's completely secure in her relationship drinks straight vodka this early in the evening. She's trying to get her courage up, again."

"Bloody hell. You barely looked at her."

"I only needed a moment," Sherlock responds brashly, forgetting to act. But Lestrade doesn't seem offended.

“I almost wish I could check your theory," he admits. "Now I'm curious."

"Might be able to, if we stay long enough," Sherlock counters. "May I buy you a meal, Inspector?"

"Ah... I suppose," Lestrade agrees. "My wife's off out this evening, so the alternative's a chippie."

"Ah. How disappointing," Sherlock teases. "I wouldn't have assumed you to be a man prone to stereotypes."

"Ah, I'm not really. I do cook -- did -- but I'm not great at cooking for one."

"Married young?"

"Actually...no." Lestrade smiles wistfully. "But I held a surprising number of dinner parties for a bachelor. Good way to meet women."

Sherlock snorts. "I wouldn't know," he admits, dropping the hint but quickly moving past it. "Were you a sargeant, then?"

"For the most part, no. Was a PC until just before the wedding. That was a good year. What about you? Imagine a bloke like you went to public school," Lestrade suggests, nodding to Sherlock's crisply cut suit.

"Yes."

"And uni?"

"Dropped out," Sherlock admits honestly.

"Ah. What were you reading, then?"

"Chemistry at Cambridge. It didn't suit."

"But no interest in forensics?" Lestrade pokes.

"Interest? Certainly." Sherlock smiles. "I do my own research now. You could ring me, if you've got anything especially tricky."

"What?" Lestrade laughs. "Like a consultant?"

"Why not? You've seen what I can do." Sherlock nods casually towards the bar. He couldn't have timed it better, the woman now in a tense conversation with a well-dressed young High Street type, twisting her ring subconsciously. He looks back at Lestrade and gets a raised eyebrow.

"Not exactly standard practice. But I could offer you some...hypotheticals, if you like. Nothing too specific."

"Homework assignments?" Sherlock teases. "I did end my studies voluntarily, you know."

"And yet, you seemed rather excited to present your findings at the Yard," Lestrade points out. "Maybe you were just studying the wrong thing."

Sherlock laughs and flags down a waitress. By the time their food arrives, he's half-solved a "hypothetical" involving a drowning and a pair of fraternal twins, and he's almost forgot what he came here for in the first place. It's been a long time since he lost himself so much in the slow-and-steady initial phase of a case. John will get nervous, of course. Mrs. Hudson will say it's good for him. All's well that ends well, from Sherlock's perspective—especially if he gets to solve a few murders in the wash.

~*~

By two months in, it's five.

Lestrade keeps a busy schedule, and they only manage a few more pub meetings, but there are also occasional cryptic text messages, asking about an odd chemical formula or in one case, a collection of foreign cigarettes. Lestrade doesn't seem to care that he's technically a dropout, and Sherlock eagerly consumes the thought puzzles. By the time he's solved the fifth case, there's an item in the paper that he manages to goad Lestrade into admitting might have something to do with the second. Lestrade's quite careful with procedure, but Sherlock's finally got him comfortable enough to actually unofficially invite his new friend into a crime scene—after the police are done with it and there's not much to find, but still. After he makes a few observations that Lestrade will need to follow up on when he talks to witnesses, they migrate to a nearby pub.

"Ah, Christ, the rugby," Lestrade groans as they approach the door and the crowd smoking outside. "Sorry, lad, I didn't think. I'm more for footie. We could try to find somewhere else...?"

"No," Sherlock objects, relying on his impressive London geography that's already come up in their acquaintance. "There's nothing else close, and I'm thirsty. We can sit outside," he suggests, and leads the way in and towards the bar. He's partially motivated by how close they'll be able to stand with a sound reason once packed in by bodies, and he is a bit thirsty in fact. He orders an orange Bacardi Breezer to Lestrade's usual lager, and is just popping it open when a smirking bloke in London Irish colors shouts over the general din.

"You're a bit far off from the dance clubs here, sweetheart!" His mates laugh, and one of them reaches over and pokes Sherlock in the ribs.

"Give us a kiss, then!"

Sherlock feels Lestrade tighten next to him, but he quickly lets a blank mask fall into place, leaves a note on the bar to cover both their drinks, and walks back towards the door quickly enough that Lestrade has to follow to avoid getting lost in the crush of people. There's a sort of terrace around the side, empty as there's no view of the telly and it's not the most convenient place to smoke. He sits astride a metal chair and tips the bottle back, swallowing a third of the cold fizzy liquid in one go. The jibes are a perfect opening, as far as his character and his mission go, but they also affect him personally more than he’d like to admit. And since Lestrade doesn’t know that he _is_ , technically, playing a role, he can let himself shadow in the sharp lines between fact and fiction, his genuine emotions choking out performance at least for this uncomfortable moment.

"Will, I--"

"Don't shorten my name. It's unnecessary," Sherlock responds, shortly, wishing for a ridiculous moment that Lestrade knew his real one.

"Sorry. Are you all right?"

"I don't know how to respond," Sherlock admits, soft and honest. "I never have known."

"You don't have to," Lestrade offers. "They're just tossers. Your choice of drink doesn't mean that you're gay."

"Will you still be comfortable working with me if I am?" Sherlock counters, looking up quickly and meeting Lestrade's gaze directly. Lestrade doesn't look away, but answers assuredly.

"Yes."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock counters, sensing an opportunity for bonding of a sort that might actually relate to his official reason for being here. Lestrade's the sort of man to be offended if his loyalty is questioned, he's learned.

"Of course I am. Why would you think otherwise?"

"You're a copper," Sherlock points out. "My disinterest in the police academy isn't only about paperwork," he grumbles. Lestrade sighs in response and tips his pint back, throat working as he takes a healthy chug.

"I'll give you that, lad. It isn't easy. But maybe better now. You could get through it."

"I'm a private person. It's never been as easy to hide as I would have liked it to be. Public school, as you deduced."

"Boys that age are all bastards, though. You could keep it to yourself if you wanted. I did."

Sherlock looks up, and does his best impression of shock. He's been acting far less with Lestrade than he normally does, but this is an important moment. "You're married!" he exclaims. "Married and faithful. I can tell."

Greg laughs. "And bisexual. You always say you tend to miss _something_."

"Really?" Sherlock shakes his head and grins a little. "I couldn't tell at all." In fact, he would have known within five minutes of acquaintance even without the dossier, but Lestrade seems pleased.

"I've been married a long time, lad. I don't imagine it's obvious to anyone.”

“Anyone else, no, certainly not. But they’re peons.”

“Humble as usual,” Greg teases. “Still, I can’t imagine even you can suss out someone’s sexuality by his shirt cuffs, if he’s not in regular practice as it were. Nothing especially different about you or I, aside from that.”

“Nothing to mark the homosexual fancy, you mean?” Sherlock restates, voice pitched low. He rolls his eyes. “Perhaps not in your case. You’re a copper, and you dress like most men.” He straightens his jacket to make a point. “I do not.”

“All right, but are you really well-dressed because you’re gay?” Lestrade challenges. “I doubt you went to the tailor for the first time thinking 'ah, right, I’d like to bugger a bloke up the arse, therefore only bespoke will do.’"

“Inspector!” Sherlock exclaims. Lestrade simply grins.

“Oh, wot? I’m not wrong, am I?"

“I went to the tailor for the first time when I was _ten_ , so no, I wasn’t thinking about buggery."

“There you are, then. Perhaps the way you dress is about class, but that doesn’t tell anyone who you fancy, only how much money you have. Or how much your parents have,” Lestrade adjusts, raising his eyebrows.

“I earn my own money,” Sherlock cuts him off sharply, suddenly sobering and forgetting all about the plays he’s supposed to be making while they’re tipsy and talking about buggery. The remark cuts more than it should, much more than the earlier insults of the evening, coming from someone who’s actually starting to care about him—and a version of him that’s almost aligned with the truth, no less. Perhaps John’s right and there’s some advantage to courting women in his line of work. Less messy that way.

Leaving his bottle with a bit in the bottom, Sherlock abruptly stands. “I am not a schoolboy anymore, Inspector,” he warns, and Lestrade’s face sinks.

“Wait… William, I didn’t mean…"

“No,” he agrees, turning on his heel. “I’m sure you didn’t.” By the time he reaches the corner at his brisk pace and flags down a black cab, he wonders if the alcohol is affecting him more than usual. This will be the first case he’s bollocksed up, if indeed he has, but Sophie Lestrade can have her money back, for all he cares. His pride is worth that much.

~*~

_I’m sorry._

_I was an arse._

_William?_

_I know it wasn’t called for, I just can’t help habits… I’m not as observant as you, but I am a detective. Sometimes it gets me into trouble. I didn’t think research could pay for designer clothes._

_**I’m not convinced it’s any of your business what my research can or cannot pay for.** _

_You’re right, it’s not. I’m really, really sorry. Pub, my shout?_

_**I can pay my own way.** _

_Of course. 7, then?_

_**Will you bring something interesting?** _

_:-) You drive a hard bargain. I think I’ll be able to, though._

_**Good. 7.** _

What Lestrade actually brings, along with a sheepish apology, is details of witness testimony related to the crime scene Sherlock had investigated previous to the incident at the pub. It’s not comprehensive enough to be going on, but it leads Sherlock down some new paths of investigation, and through that they get back on shaky but friendly footing. They meet again barely a week later, and by the end of the month, the case is ninety percent solved. Sherlock feels a kind of adrenaline rush when Lestrade brings him the news, and wonders what kind of damage he could do if he were actually allowed to participate in the work more directly. A celebratory drink turns into three, and Lestrade shouting along with the lyrics of an 80s power ballad that gets them more-or-less thrown out onto the street. As they’re stumbling along together, it’s entirely genuine whim that has Sherlock grabbing Lestrade's arm and pushing his wet mouth against Lestrade’s rough-stubbled neck. Lestrade laughs and pushes him away, but doesn’t scold him for it, and they both end up giggling. The next meeting isn’t awkward, and it’s clear that the half-kiss will be water under the bridge.

Aside from the job, Sherlock is rather concerned that he doesn’t want it to be.

~*~

“What is _that_?” John asks, scrubbing his hand over his hair and staring at the assemblage of gory crime scene photographs decorating the long sitting room wall over the sofa.

“Beheading!” Sherlock exclaims, eyes bright.

“ _Really?_ ” John looks vaguely ill, though he allows Sherlock all sorts of unusual organic material around the flat for his experiments. It’s one of the reasons they’ve lived together successfully for several years, longer than Sherlock has stayed in any flat before. Certainly far longer than he ever expected a flatshare to last. But John does look a bit queasy as he inspects the images. _Dull._

“Yes, really. Lestrade’s team has no idea what to make of it. He might even let me speak with a witness!"

“Heaven forbid.” Sherlock looks at him, though, and his smile is fond. “Is that even above board?”

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock sighs. “I’ll have to sign proper papers. May need Mycroft to tighten my alias a bit. I’d hate to owe him one, though.”

“I suppose it’s worth it,” John allows. “I don’t think I’ve seen you this excited since that heiress koshed her prat of a husband over the head with an antique vase.”

Sherlock smirks. “You were just as excited at the retelling, don’t lie.”

“He was a dick to you. You’re not the most polite person, but there’s no reason to poke fun at your abilities. I didn’t like him having you on.”

“He could have me any way he likes for the sum I charged for that case,” Sherlock points out. That had kept them in good takeaway for months, with Sherlock’s pricing model in play—meet the client first, determine level of annoyance involved, charge accordingly. The toff hadn’t blinked at the fee when Sherlock named it, but he’s still not entirely sure it was worth it.

“Still.” John frowns and points to one of the photographs, where half a page of something bright yellow is showing at the edge. “Is that an actual Batman #1? Christ. What I would’ve given for that when I was a kid.”

 _Comics. Typically pedestrian boyhood interest_ , Sherlock thinks, then frowns. “How rare is it?” he asks. “That issue.”

“No idea,” John admits. “But it’s worth a quarter of a million quid, easy.”

“Which means the sale would be traceable…” Sherlock beams, grabs John’s shoulders, and shakes him. “Fantastic!” he exclaims, then whips around to grab his phone and type out a text. Occasionally, it’s useful to be in the acquaintance of someone who actually pays attention to pop culture.

~*~

“I cannot believe you talked me into this,” Greg gripes as they settle into a booth in the window of a posh new Indonesian restaurant opposite a block of even posher luxury flats in Knightsbridge. The Holmes name—not even Mycroft’s influence, for once, but the noble heritage of Sherlock’s father—had been enough to assure the prime seating, and luckily the Metropolitan police is footing the bill for their food during the stakeout.

“Don’t fuss. Any other method would raise too much suspicion. He’s already paranoid as it is.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Greg sighs, carefully lifting a spoonful of rawon to his lips and blowing gently on it.

“Well it wasn’t my fault your lot insisted on questioning his associates first. I’d be on the lookout for panda cars and suspicious men in plainclothes on my block as well, in his shoes.”

“No, you’d be halfway across the world plotting your next unsolvable crime,” Greg teases. “I’m only lucky you’re not on the other side, lad, I don’t think I could catch you.”

Sherlock giggles, genuinely delighted, and looks away from the window for a moment to meet the genuinely fond expression on Lestrade’s face. “You couldn’t,” he agrees. “But committing crimes has never appealed, lucky for you indeed.” _Well — except for the controlled substances, but he doesn’t need to know about all that._

“Other than sodomy?” Greg teases, his voice low and warm. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“I wasn’t _alive_ when Dudgeon came down, old man. What, did you celebrate?” He raises his eyebrows, and Greg just smirks.

“Wouldn’t you like to know. I don’t kiss and tell.”

“No,” Sherlock evaluates. “You wouldn’t.” Twirling up a bit of noodles, he almost reluctantly catches movement in the corner of his eye, and sure enough there’s their mark, letting himself nervously into his flat. _The game is on._

~*~

Sherlock is positively ebullient when they arrest the man. He has to have his statement taken again afterward, since he’d insisted on physically accompanying the Inspector, but he doesn’t much mind, even when it’s a different Yarder questioning him. The interview is child’s play, and afterward Greg offers to give him a ride home. He’s high as a kite off his victory, and when Greg pulls up on the block Sherlock had specified, it’s instinct that has him leaning in for a triumphant kiss goodnight.

“Wait,” Greg murmurs, his voice brusque but— _wanting_ —Sherlock evaluates in a quick instant when neither of them quite pull away after the quick smack on the lips, hovering an inch away from each other and staring at each other’s mouths. “William… I can’t.”

“You’re married,” Sherlock frowns, his regret oddly genuine. “Sorry, it’s just… a _beheading_ …”

Greg’s laugh is loud in the enclosed space of he car. “I want to,” he admits, after it fades, shifting to face forward again with his hands resting on the steering wheel— _to keep from touching me_ , Sherlock notes in a kind of disconnected part of his brain. “I’ve never quite… _wanted_ to, like this.” Sherlock’s breath catches. Greg looks older, tired, but his words are like catnip to Sherlock’s suddenly hopeful brain. “But I can’t. It wouldn’t be right. My marriage isn’t great right now, but my vows mean something to me. I’m sorry, lad.”

“No,” Sherlock responds softly, feeling uncharacteristically moved by Greg’s response, and not as bothered as he should be given the dependence of his income on weak morals. “I understand. It’s… good. That you’re honest with her.” He touches Lestrade’s hand on the wheel, and is surprised to find he means it.

Slipping out of the car, he walks a while, meandering towards his actual address, and replays the night in his mind. Strangely, he finds himself more genuinely attracted than before, in the face of a kind of response he encounters so infrequently in his line of work. Somehow, his _failure_ to seduce the man is oddly sexy. He’s never been so pleased to lose at a challenge—and unusually, he feels slightly sick at the prospect of pushing forward. Maybe John really did have a point.

~*~

The work continues.

Uncertain as he feels, caught at an impasse, Sherlock doesn’t tell Sophie Lestrade no. He doesn’t stop seeing her husband. Greg seems comfortable enough, despite his awkward confession, and Sherlock shows every sign of respecting it, so Greg’s relaxed around him. Maybe bringing it into the open air even helped. Sherlock admittedly doesn’t feel confident in interpreting these kinds of emotional situations, and so he doesn’t. They keep solving cases. Sherlock even works a couple that Greg’s not lead Inspector on, once word of William Emerson's usefulness gets around.

After tracking a witness one afternoon, speaking to various members of a well-to-do club, Sherlock’s in the middle of a monologue when Greg suddenly holds out a hand, palm facing Sherlock, and frowns. “Stop.”

“Stop… what?” Sherlock frowns, genuinely confused.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Acting.” Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat. “I’m not angry with you, lad. I just… I’ve noticed you do this weird thing occasionally. You’re… not yourself. It’s useful for investigations, but it creeps me out a bit when it bleeds over.”

“…oh.” Sherlock frowns. Perhaps he has been a bit posher, a bit more _Mycroft_ in his interactions with Greg since they left he club. He hadn’t noticed, and he deflates a little. Greg smiles, puts a hand on his elbow.

“Don’t be embarrassed. Just… I want you to be honest with me. I don’t need a chameleon. I already like you as you are.”

“Oh. Right.” Sherlock blows out a breath through pursed lips and then continues his pace down the street, trusting Greg to keep up. “They were all pretty much dicks, then, if you want my opinion.”

Greg laughs. “Atta boy.”

~*~

It’s true—the members of the club are all pretty much dicks. They’re also more observant than Sherlock gave them credit for, and somehow he ends up following a too-tempting, too _obvious_ clue (he realizes when he considers the events in retrospect) to a knife fight in Lambeth. He’s only lucky he’d bothered to text Greg on the way to the meet, and thus escapes with an awful lot of blood loss and a stab wound to one thigh but his life in tact. The other guys, he’s pleased to note as he succumbs to unconsciousness under Greg’s worried watch, have their own injuries to show for it.

He wakes in a hospital bed, with Greg leaning over him and much the same expression on his face. Sherlock wants to laugh, but he feels sluggish and his mouth is dry.

“Here, lad. Water, yeah?” Sherlock sucks obediently on the straw of the cup he’s offered, and waits till he’s hydrated to speak.

“You arrested all of them?”

“And a few more besides. Christ, William. You can’t just _do_ that. Go out on your own… you scared the shite out of me.”

“I’m… fine.” Sherlock smiles weakly. Obviously he’s not, but he’ll heal. Still, Greg looks like he’s seen a ghost, and is growing a bit frantic.

“You might not have been. Docs said you were lucky. I just… I wanted… thought I wouldn’t have a chance to...” Greg groans in frustration, like he’s wrestling with himself, and then bends over Sherlock’s hospital bed, close to his face, muttering “oh, fuck it.” Sherlock’s eyes widen in realization.

“Wait! Don’t. You shouldn’t.”

Greg frowns, hovering close to Sherlock's mouth. “But… I thought you wanted…”

“You have no idea how much I…” Sherlock swallows, unable to fully compose himself in the face of so much genuine conflict and yes, affection, in the Inspector’s eyes. “… _want_. But you shouldn’t. I… won’t let you.”

Greg frowns, not comprehending—understandable, given how willing Sherlock was to ignore the stigma of infidelity before. He’s never apologized for the almost-kisses, for his obvious desire for Lestrade. Accepted the outcome, certainly, but that’s all Greg knows. He sits up straighter, though he still sits close, and waits patiently for an explanation.

Ultimately, Sherlock has to close his eyes rather than see the pain in the man’s eyes when his next words come tumbling out. “You value honesty, and I have been lying to you. Your wife has been lying to you. If you pursue me, you’re not only pursuing a fiction, but you’re giving her the amunition she needs to bury you in the divorce. I have come to… genuinely care, far too much, to let that happen,” he admits, forcing himself to look at Greg for the last bit.

“ _What_?” Greg looks genuinely flabbergasted. “William, you’re making no sense.”

“Sherlock,” he sighs. “My name is Sherlock, and I am a professional home wrecker. My brief was to seduce you, ensuring Mrs. Lestrade a more favorable outcome in the divorce settlement she seeks as a result of her own… shall we say, wandering hands?” Sherlock sniffs, his sore body stiff as he closes himself off to finish this. He watches the anger rise to conquer disbelief in the other man’s expression, all softness vanished. “Far more of what I’ve shown you of myself was real than I ever intended, in the beginning. That was my obvious mistake, letting emotion come into it… but I cannot, in truth, follow through. Nor can I offer you the honest, empathetic partner you deserve. I am, in fact, nothing more than a high-functioning sociopath, and you should seriously consider divorcing your wife and then looking for better. His name is Emerson McDonough, and his flat is in Academy Gardens, in Kensington.”

“You… _bastard_ ,” Lestrade exclaims. Sherlock doesn’t bother to respond, and merely watches him stand, kick a cabinet (possibly because he can't do the same to Sherlock), and go. Sighing, he reaches for his mobile and sends off a text.

_Cocked the whole thing up. Don’t say you told me so. Need to be sprung from St. Thomas’ at your earliest convenience. - SH_

_Preferably sooner. - SH_

~*~

The results of his little meltdown are predictable.

McDonough threatens legal action. Sherlock refuses to take Sophie Lestrade’s calls, and resigns himself to owe Mycroft a favor for his assistance in keeping Sherlock out of court and retaining a barrister. Despite that boon, business inevitably dries up entirely. His career depends entirely upon his reputation, and it’s no surprise that McDonough is intent on ruining him. John’s in good enough cheer to cover next month’s rent, but he’s not shy about reminding Sherlock that he has 45 days to either get a job or somehow talk Mycroft into reinstating his allowance. Eventually, Sherlock has to concede to take some completely trifling cases for friends of John’s—ironically, the first is looking for evidence of adultery. The second and third involve missing pets, and Sherlock strongly considers cocaine or suicide, but his brother’s people are everywhere he looks and John is no less vigilant.

Ultimately, he settles into a kind of pattern of rigorous scientific experimentation and mind-numbing private detective work. It’s four months before, with no expectation of ever doing so again, he sees Gregory Lestrade.

“Oh, wow. You’re the DI.”

Sherlock’s head pops up from his current experiment so fast he nearly strains something. Through the kitchen wall, he hears Greg’s familiar pleasant tone in response, though there’s a bit of a disappointed or uncertain note to it.

“Well… yes. That’d be me. Sorry, I don’t think he mentioned…” _Oh. Of course. He’s never been to my flat, and now a strange man answering the door, assumptions warrant…_

“Oh, right, no, of course not. Suppose it can’t hurt, now that you know… everything.” John’s laugh is stilted, uncomfortable. Sherlock imagines him sticking his hand out, standing military straight, and hopes Greg has enough deductive skill at least to see the obvious heterosexuality coming off him in waves. “John Watson, flatmate. He’ll be chuffed to see you.”

“I… that’s good, I guess. Is he in?”

“Yeah, sure. Sherlock!”

Blinking, Sherlock suddenly realizes that the situation calls for his actual appearance, not simply eavesdropping, and rips the goggles over his head, hastily untying and removing his apron as well. He’s trying to smooth down his shirt and simultaneously check his hair with the other hand when, evidently uninterested in actually waiting, Greg and John come around to the doorway.

“Err…hi.” He stares, for a moment, awkwardly lowering his hands by his sides as he’s been caught out, and wonders what one is supposed to say in this situation. Greg doesn’t help, and for a long minute they just look at each other, Greg’s eyes also darting to take in the chemistry setup that dominates three-quarters of the kitchen. He's dressed in a sky blue shirt, familiar navy coat, but his face is a bit tanned and his hair cut shorter. Somehow, more intangibly, his posture conveys more ease than before. Once he's taken all this in Sherlock finally, sheepishly, breaks the silence. “Sherlock Holmes. Pleasure to… meet you?”

That gets a laugh, at least. Pained, annoyed, maybe, but it’s a step. Greg’s smile lingers. “Right. I saw there was a cafe downstairs. I was wondering if we could… talk a bit?”

“Oh.” Sherlock looks from him to John, and then nods. “Yes. Yes, of course, I… would like that.” A bit unsteady, he steps into the sitting room and reaches for his coat. He’s not wearing a blazer over his dress shirt, but it’s hard to think about such tedious details as he’s rapid-fire attempting to deduce the Inspector’s mood and the real reason for the visit. _Still angry with me. Obvious. But perhaps less so? He seems calm enough, seeing me. Divorce gone through, significantly **more** angry with his wife. Confused. Looking for his place in the world, now, looking for answers…_

He leads the way downstairs and into Speedy’s, where they sit in the corner with two coffees. Greg glances around, then leans forward a bit, over the table. “Is there… another alias I should use now? In public?”

Sherlock blinks at Greg’s willingness to play along after everything that happened between them, but shakes his head. “Just Sherlock. I’m not in the business anymore.”

“Ah. Because of Sophie?”

“Technically, because of her boyfriend.” Sherlock shrugs.

Greg smiles, improbably. “Well… you’re not the only one who hates his guts, if it’s any consolation.”

Sherlock nods, sips his coffee. “You knew.”

“About her cheating? Yeah. I knew. Hoped it was an aberration, but… I’m smarter than that. Had to admit it eventually.”

“Yet you remained faithful.” Sherlock’s face twists a bit. “I will never understand normal people and their relationships.”

“Yeah, right,” Greg snickers. “You’re not really above it all, Sherlock, think you’ve proven that. Proven that you have your own moral boundaries, too, for all you flaunt social convention.”

“Guilty as charged, Inspector,” Sherlock responds, droll to mask the hurt he’s still feeling at missing what he couldn’t ever really have had.

“Did you know, then? That telling me would end your career?”

Sherlock nods, always frank. “It was inevitable. Worth it.”

“Right then…” Lestrade scrubs a hand over his face, obviously deliberating over something. Sherlock drinks his coffee and waits until he finally sits up straight and then leans forward, expression full of resolve. “I keep asking myself,” he admits, voice soft enough that Sherlock has to lean in a bit himself to hear him, “if I imagined the whole thing. I mean… too good to be true, obvious, you showed me, but… job aside, were your feelings for me ultimately genuine?”

Sherlock swallows. “Yes.” He finds that’s all he _can_ say. Greg nods.

“I didn’t think anyone was that good an actor. Not even you.”

“I am,” Sherlock counters, “that good. But… I didn’t need to be, with you.” It costs him something to make that admission, and he looks down, twisting the cardboard sleeve of his coffee cup for something to do with his hands.

“This is probably really dumb,” Greg says after a moment, and when Sherlock looks up, he's smiling. “But I’d like to start over. I haven’t got anything to lose, really… and I have a case I could use your help on.”

Feeling uncharacteristically shy, Sherlock allows a small answering smile to creep onto his lips. “Could it be a date, then?” Something about the Inspector’s demeanor has given him hope. Greg laughs out loud in response to Sherlock’s question, tipping his head back. Sherlock’s missed this.

“You want to spend our first date at the scene of a gory double homicide?” he asks, still grinning. Sherlock bites his lip, feeling his cheeks heat.

“Is that…” He backpedals, unsure of his boldness. “... rather, if you’d like we could…”

“Yeah, all right.” His grin doesn’t fade, and Sherlock thinks he feels himself melt a little, much as he’s never bought into such romantic drivel.

“Good. That’s… good.” He stands and tosses his empty paper cup in the bin. Getting to his own feet, Greg gives him a wink.

"A bloke I know gave me some advice, so...I divorced my wife. I might be looking for something better now." He tosses his own cup, then offers a hand to Sherlock. “Shall we?” And somehow, the warm clasp of leather-encased fingers around his own as they walk to Greg’s car feels more romantic than any kiss.


End file.
